The Ball and Chain
by AUTOMATICjoy
Summary: [Mangaverse][Royai, sort of.] Riza as a child, young, naive, and being swallowed by her secret hate for alchemy, her father, and suprisingly, her future boss: Roy Mustang.


Another Royai-y piece—Hell, I'm becoming a terrible romantic. To some, this one may seem kind of weird, and I'll a agree a little. Mangaverse, dudes.

Stoked.

Yeah, I'm trying to act like I'm Californian.

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_I brought you into this world, and I can just as easily take you out of it._

Riza had heard that saying as a child, and even after reaching adulthood, the saying still made her shiver. She would tremble as she thought of the ball-and-chain that went along with being someone's daughter—being someone's possession, almost.

That some cosmic law awarded unyielding power over you, just because that someone gave birth, or sired you. Some unknown regulation of the universe that a parent could brandish over your head like a carrot over a donkeys'.

For someone to say, _I can snuff you out between this finger and the next_, and actually mean it.

Riza had never liked being corseted by the times, or caged by her parentage or sex. That's why she made it a point to be nobody's mother, and nobody's wife—and ultimately, nobody's daughter, either.

Nobody could tell you—scare you—with something like, _I brought you into this world, and I can just as easily take you out of it._

Nobody could scare Riza anymore. Never again.

Her father turned in his grave.

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Riza's father—though kindly at first glance—was quite the hermit. He barricaded himself in his office, behind books and test-tubes; beakers and transmutation circles.

He shoved all his responsibilities and duties upon his eleven year old daughter—who ever had seen an eleven year old with grocery lists and loads of laundry to do, and rugs to beat? She grew up fast—that Riza. Only because of the way her father had pulled out her childhood from beneath her, like a curled up rug.

But sadly enough instead of his own daughter, Roy had been the only person that her father had had any real contact with. He was so blinded by Roy's talent, that he reached a little, and taught him the ropes of Alchemy—that great betrayer.

Another reason Riza felt so disconnected with her father, she loathed alchemy— she did. Alchemy was selfish. Alchemy was the mean child in school, who didn't share his toys. That's how Riza felt about Alchemy.

Alchemy took away all her toys—her family, friends, and even Roy—and didn't give them back. Or when he did, he gave them back in pieces and splinters—like her father. Only bits and pieces left of him.

_That thief, that thief_, she thought.

That's why when her father asked her—the first words in what seemed like forever—to carry the secrets of his work on her flesh, she obliged. She obliged, and went through the ordeal of the tattoo with a smile.

A smile, but still, it hurt.

The sting she felt lasted a lifetime.

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A smoldering disdain had set in the moment Roy had moved into the guest bedroom of the Hawkeye house. Riza's coarse feelings were rooted in the absurdity of that somehow; the student-teacher bond was stronger than one of flesh and blood.

But Riza wrote it off as more repulsion than jealousy; Roy was, of course, a terrible slob. And that was something Riza did not appreciate—and she also didn't appreciate his chin stubble in the sink, or his wrinkled clothes strewn all over the floor either. A slob, she coached, a slob, a damn nuisance. That's what she trained herself to think; she refused to remember her father loved her so little, and Roy so much.

So Riza quietly shrunk when Roy entered the room, and resisted any contact or dialogue.

"Hello Riza," he would give up sweetly as he could.

And Riza in turn, would wither away from him—a barrier made from spite and hunched shoulders.

This is how it always happened, and every failed encounter would only lessen his faith in her, until he stopped all together.

What surprise he would feel if he could look into the future and see this girl working below him as his aid; his unyielding confidant.

This girl who he could not invoke a simple, "Hello," from.

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"Father," her young voice sang out like bright ribbons and wind chimes, "Father! Look what I did!"

Roy almost started to gape—her voice, Riza's voice. He had honestly never heard her speak before, and in such happy tones; he was aghast. Roy watched pensively as Riza burst in from obscurity like a handkerchief from the core of a magician's hand—all from the breakfast table.

"Child, leave me alone," Mr. Hawkeye shooed Riza sternly, and hurriedly tried to skulk back into his office; alone.

"But Father," Riza's voice wavered.

But it was too late, and the door of the office had been slammed in her face. Her frown pinched downward, and Roy noticed her eyes becoming glossy; the stack of papers she had cradled hit the floor and spread like a wave about the kitchen.

Roy gathered a few, and then noticed the woven transmutation circle scrawled on—_Complicated shit_, he thought.

"Is this your father's?" Roy asked, "I'll go give it back to him, if you want."

He was careful with his words; Roy didn't want a blubbering teenager on his hands.

"No," she said softly, "It's mine. I figured it out, I mean."

"Like father like daughter, I guess," he said warmly.

"God, I hope not," Riza blurted out, and then cupped her hand over her mouth.

"I kind of see your point," Roy reasoned, "He doesn't treat very well."

Then wispy and sudden, he heard truth fly out of her mouth, "You're right."

And slowly, they began understand the other; they broke ground for the rest of their lives.

For war, death, and then, liberation, sweet on the tongue, like a kiss flush on the mouth.

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The page breaks may a little strange, forgive me, please. I pulled this one out of my ass. You know how that is, you write because you want to write, not because you're inspired. Ugh, man.

Roses are red, violets are blue, reviews are great… and I don't know you…

That was lame; just review.


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